


Home is Where My Fears Die

by feelgood_mac



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: (Ain't gonna say who tho), Anxiety Disorder, Final tags to be added soon, Homosexual Marco, M/M, Panic Attacks, Pansexual Jean, Social Anxiety, Trans Character, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-22
Updated: 2016-09-10
Packaged: 2018-03-14 15:50:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 20,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3416501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feelgood_mac/pseuds/feelgood_mac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My name is Jean Kirschtein and this is part of my therapy assignment; record every little detail of my life and never look back at it again. There's not much to look back on, honestly. Except for the freckled barista and his contagious smile. Maybe one day I'll get him to see me as an actual human being rather than an unknown entity that wanders in from time to time, asking for the strongest brewed cup of coffee known to man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One Freckled Barista to go, please

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to apologize right now for Jean seeming OOC; it will be resolved later on. This is my first fanfic so let me know if anything needs fixed.

It’s Friday, 7 am, and the neighbour kid is late for the school bus. Again. How do I know this? The fucking bus driver is honking his goddamn horn over and over again, disturbing me from my much needed sleep.

“Should’ve gone to bed sooner,” I mumble as I cover my face with a pillow to block the noise. Three hours of sleep isn’t enough but, with my schedule, it’s the most I’ve gotten all week. I crawl out of bed and manage to make my way to my dresser where a large bowl of water sits for days just like this. Thank the gods that may be, I filled it last night. After washing my face, I turn to my closet full of last season’s clothes and grab a grey t-shirt, a black oversized sweater that my uncle used to wear, and my tightest pair of red skinny jeans, which just so happen to be the only clean pair of pants I have.

A few minutes later and I’m ready to face the day. Sort of. I go downstairs to make some coffee because I won’t survive without a whole pot to myself but, because I haven’t gone shopping in a long time (I think it’s been about a month), I am all out of coffee. And food. 

“Great. Fucking fantastic!” I shout into the air as I slam the stainless steel door of my fridge shut, knocking off one of the magnets stuck there. I’m about to go on a rampage through my ‘state-of-the-art’ and empty kitchen to find something edible when my phone rings. I barely answer it in time but the voice I hear on the other end makes me want to hang up and go back to bed.

“Jean, sweetie,” my mother coos into the receiver, “is it alright if I come over sometime next week?”

“Fuck…” I groan. Whenever she comes over it’s the same thing: ‘Jean, have you gotten a girlfriend yet? A boyfriend? Are you ever going to move to a better town? You should come live with me so we can take care of each other.’ And other motherly shit. But, still, I love her.

“Jean Kirschtein, what did I tell you about cursing?” Her voice is stern and low.

I cringe and sigh out an answer, “Never before noon. Except for very good reason. But, Mom, I-“ She cuts me off before I can finish, saying that she’ll be here next Wednesday night around 5. She then promptly hangs up. Too tired to call her back and argue, I grab my beanie and leave my brick townhouse for the first time in… 5 days? 6? I don’t know; I don’t care. 

Walking has never been my favourite pastime and it probably won’t ever be, especially with how populated it is around here, but I’m too cheap to get a car. They cost too much and they pollute the atmosphere; the planet should thank me. 

Since I conveniently forgot my sunglasses in my room, I’ve got my head down so I don’t go blind from looking at the sun. Too early, too bright. I keep going like this until I reach my destination: Maria Coffee Shop. A quaint little place; all wood interior and a chalkboard full of the days offerings. It’s run by Hanji Zoe and their partner, Moblit. They have some weird flavours but that’s what drew me in here a while ago. That and the cute barista they have working morning shift. He is adorable with all of his freckles and the way he blushes heavily when he gets flustered. 

I walk right up to the wooden counter and wave at Hanji. They start to come bounding over but the circles under my eyes warn them that today is not a talking day. If I don’t get enough sleep, I’m not able to speak to others. It’s hard enough to talk to people properly when I am rested but without sleep? I speak about as much as a rock. Unless it’s to myself, that is. Which is exactly what I’m doing when the barista turns around and shines that million watt smile in my overly-exhausted face.

“Is there anything I can- Jean? Hello!” he says, his energy punching me in the gut, making me want to run home. “How are you doing? I haven’t seen you… you look horrible.”  
His face drops at the end of his sentence and I feel guilty. That and the concern I hear in his voice makes me lift my head higher as I try to smile to relieve him of his worry, but his face drops even more. I should work on my smiling; I probably look like I just swallowed broken glass. I open my mouth but no sound comes out. Yep, today is a no-talking day. I turn my gaze to Hanji and they see me just in time. They rush over, hook their arm around the barista’s neck, and say: “Jeanbo here isn’t one for talking today so just give him the Titan. He looks like he needs it, Marco.”

Marco, the barista, nods and turns to make the Titan, a coffee drink with a kick that has the power of Godzilla, King Kong, and my mother combined. I reach out to Hanji to stop them before they head to the back again. They look at me, nod, and scurry off to fulfill my silent request: a bundle of coffee that’ll last me about a month, if I’m careful. I’m about to fall asleep at the counter when Marco hands me my drink. I take a sip, grit my teeth, and cough. This tastes like shit but it’ll keep me awake for hours. I’m already feeling the effects just from the aroma.

“Here ya go, Jeanbo! One extra-large bundle of your favourite blend!” Hanji practically shrieks, which wakes me up even more. I nod and start to pull out my wallet. A hand on my arm stops me and I look up. Marco’s smiling as he pulls a five out of his pocket to pay for the drink and Hanji winks at me. I get the bundle of coffee free every month because I hooked Hanji up with my cousin, Hitch, who does advertising, but I don’t know why Marco would want to pay for my coffee. I murmur a thank you and turn to leave. Marco calls out a goodbye and I raise a hand in acknowledgement before the door shuts behind me.

Fast forward six hours and I’m in my library, laying on the worn out rug with my cat, Artemis, listening to some Chopin. I love Chopin and he usually gets me in the working mood but I can’t stop thinking. Thinking about my mother’s impending visit, about the lack of food in my house, and, more importantly, about the smile Marco gave me this morning. Artemis stretches on top of me, her fully black coat shining in the lamplight, and it pulls me out of my thoughts. The room around me seems to get smaller and smaller the longer I sit here so I turn the music off, it started playing Schumann and I’m not in the mood for it, then I walk into the hall. I’m about to head to my room for a well needed nap when my stomach growls. I’ve only had coffee today so I should probably get something to eat. Which means another walk in town.

Twenty minutes later and I’m somehow seated in the overly friendly, brightly lit, and busy Sina Family restaurant. I’m perusing the menu when I hear a familiar voice say: “Hello, sir, are you ready to order?” I turn to answer when I see the same million watt smile from this morning. 

“M-Marco?!” I stammer out, shocked and embarrassed. I never see him outside of the coffee shop and I’m usually too tired to notice how horrid I look. He doesn’t seem to notice that, though, as his eyes widen in shock and then his face settles into an even brighter smile that makes my fucking heart go wild.

“Jean! H-Hello. I didn’t expect to see you here,” Marco replies, blushing a bit around the ears.

I open my mouth to reply when my phone rings. It’s my mother, again. I glance at Marco before turning off my phone. He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything. I point out my order because being around him, and people in general, tends to freeze up my vocal chords, and he heads back to the kitchen. I’ve never seen him from the back and, let me tell you, if I was a more confident man, I’d be all over that. His ass is perfectly framed by the tight jeans of his uniform and his back muscles are just barely visible through the thin black t-shirt that must be his uniform top… I sigh and turn my phone back on so I can listen to the voicemail my mother almost certainly left. 

My mother is a nice woman; over-the-top, but nice. I get all of my looks from her; she was a model before she met my father, the bastard, and it’s because of that that she can live comfortably now seeing as how the man who I share half of my genes with decided to ditch her once she got a couple wrinkles. Aside from the wrinkles, my mother is still as beautiful as she was twenty-five years ago, before she had me. Fuck that, she’s even more beautiful because of the wrinkles. They show how hard she’s worked to keep her dignity, her independence. She’s the strongest woman I’ve ever met and ever will meet. I wouldn’t be as successful as I am today without her. Although I use the term successful loosely.

She’s let her hair go gray naturally; there’s nobody she needs to impress, she says. I get my build from her: thin and tall but muscular enough to not look like a skeleton. Her odd coloured eyes were passed onto me, also; no one really knows what colour they are. Some days they’re greenish and some days they are mostly brown. Other than that, there’s not really anything outstanding about me. Except for my hair, that is. Two-toned and cut to emphasize my facial structure, according to mum, my hair is ash blonde on top with a dark brown undercut. I swear to all the deities that may be, it is natural. Fucking dickwads in high school would always pull at it and once, my cousin Hitch, in all her annoying glory, shaved my head to see if it would grow back two-toned. It did and she owed me lunch every week for a year.

My mother’s voicemail is just a confirmation on the dinner date next Wednesday and to congratulate me on my book. Did I mention that I’m a relatively new author that just made the New York Times’ bestseller list? No? Well, now you know and you’re one of the only ones to know the identity of the author of "Life is Where My Fears Thrive", a first-hand look into the wonders of living with anxiety. Because I’m self-conscious about nearly everything and because I like my present state of living quite well, I use a pseudonym. I couldn’t come up with a decent real name so I decided to play off of the nickname I got stuck with in high school and named myself Cheval.

I’m just putting my phone into the pocket of my uncomfortably tight skinny jeans when Marco comes up to my table, practically shaking with nervousness. He mumbles something as he sets down my order and I can only make out something about it being his break. He’s about to head back into the kitchen when I grab his arm. Must’ve been the coffee this morning; I never fucking touch people unless I’m forced. He looks as shocked as I feel so when I gesture for him to sit with me, it doesn’t register for a moment.

“O-oh!” Marco gasps as he finally realizes what I’m asking. He hurriedly takes a seat and ends up almost knocking over my glass of water. He sputters out an apology and starts blushing so hard that I can’t help but giggle a little which makes him look at me before breaking out into laughter himself. We sit there, laughing like morons, for a few minutes before he finally speaks.

“I’ve never seen you outside of the coffee shop. W-which is totally not your fault!” he blurts out. “I’ve got a busy schedule so I might not have seen you or if you’ve been here before then you might have had someone else wait on you but I don’t want you to feel expected to talk to me. I-I mean,” he mumbles quietly, “you never texted or called me so I thought you just didn’t want to talk to me.”

What. The. Fuck. I am seriously in danger of having a heart attack because of how cute he is when he blushes. He goes so red you almost can’t see the sea of freckles that lay along his cheeks and nose. His words haven’t sunk in until I see him glancing up at me nervously while wringing his freckled hands. I haven’t texted or called him? I give him a puzzled look; I’m not a big talker but, since he doesn’t seem to understand, I take a deep breath before nearly blurting out: “I don’t even have your number otherwise I totally would have texted you! I’ve been wanting to talk to you for weeks b-but…”

The bewilderment on his face makes me think over what I just said. I didn’t say anything rude, right? This is why I don’t usually talk to people! I always do something wrong; I have no filter sometimes and what I mean to say and what I’m thinking end up getting switched around. I’m about to apologize and run out of here when he beings to chuckle. Now it’s my turn to look bewildered. What is so funny? I look around for a little bit to make sure that no one is staring but everyone else is too occupied with their food, other than an elderly couple that I’ve seen around town. Or rather, used to see around town. As I said before, I don’t get out much.

“Jean, you never look at the outside of the cups of coffee that you buy, do you?” Marco asks me, pulling me out of my thoughts and back into the stagnant conversation. 

“The… outside?” I ponder out loud, scratching my ear nervously. This causes him to laugh even more. I look up, debating whether or not I should get up and leave but he grabs my hand and my brain short-circuits. His hand is so fucking soft and I’m tempted to squeeze it before I realize that he’s speaking to me.

“-never noticed. I put it on there almost every time you came in. I was getting worried that you just didn’t like me.” He says, ending with one of his signature laughs; they sound like the goddamn bells of the Notre Dame Cathedral. I was born and raised in France so I know what I’m talking about, you fucking doubters. 

I’m about to tell him just how much I do like him when he gets up and he flashes me that smile as bright as the fucking sun as he hands me a post-it with something scribbled on it. He turns to leave and I get a wonderful view of his ass, which doesn’t help me one bit. He’s almost through the thin double-doors that lead to the kitchen when he spins back around, sprints to me, and grabs my arm which causes my heart to throb uncontrollably.

“Do not lose that post-it, Jean, or else all the coffee you buy during my shift will be de-caf.” He whispers in my ear jokingly but, if his tone is anything to go by, he really would make all my coffee de-caf, which would practically sign my death certificate. Before I can reply, he’s gone; the only evidence of his leaving is the swinging of the double-doors and a crash in the kitchen as he most likely knocks something over in his rush. The people at the table next to me start whispering to themselves and that’s what convinces me to eat my food as fast as possible so I can escape the stares and quiet conversations that are most likely about me.


	2. Of cats, thoughts, and Tater Tot

I’ve never been one for idle conversation or being out in public; I guess you probably figured that out from the fact that I haven’t left my home in almost a week. If I need to go out, then I go out. If I don’t, I stay in. My mother likes to say that I’m independent and shy; my friends, which are dwindling in number, like to say that I’m anti-social and unable to hold a conversation. Both statements are equally true and false. I do like being on my own and not relying on others; I do avoid socializing whenever possible. But to say that I’m anti-social? I wouldn’t go that far. I’m more like… Mr. Darcy from Pride and Prejudice. There’s one line that he says that I’ve always felt described me: “I certainly have not the talent which some people possess of conversing easily with those I have never seen before.” It’s not that I don’t want to talk to others; it’s that I can’t. I can’t form the words to introduce myself to a stranger; I can’t form the words to greet a friend whom I have not seen in a while. If I could, I’d either be the most popular man in Trost or the most hated. Popular because I’d be going to and fro, trying to get as many friends as possible so that I wouldn’t ever feel lonely. Hated because when I do get comfortable around people I turn into a snarky asshat who never knows when to keep his mouth shut. But enough on that, let’s get back to how my day is going.  


I practically ran home and now I’m sitting in front of my fireplace, debating whether or not to look at the post-it that’s still in my hand from when Marco handed it to me. Gods, his hands. Either he’s a musician or an artist because those slender fingers would be wasted if he weren’t. I replay the conversation we had, or tried to have, over and over in my head, remembering the way his tongue would quickly dart to the back of his teeth when he spoke and how his fucking model-quality body shook whenever he laughed. I am so fucking smitten, it isn’t even funny. Shit.

I roll onto my back and comb my hand through the top layer of my hair, knocking off my beanie. I’ve never felt like this; how can one person, who you’ve barely held a conversation with, get so deep into your mind that you fear they won’t ever leave. How am I supposed to write when all I can think about is him and his freckled face? I bet he’s got freckles everywhere. I can just picture the freckles trailing down his back all the way to his ass… 

I bolt upright, scaring Artemis who was just about to curl up beside me. I’ve found my inspiration; if I can’t force him out of my head by wishing and hoping, then why not try writing him out instead? I run up my carpeted stairs two at a time and shove my library door open. My library is where all of the magic happens. And no, not the magic that you’re thinking of; get your mind out of the gutter. This is the magic that comes from my mind and bleeds out of my fingertips. The magic that sets my heart ablaze and makes me feel alive for days on end: my writing.

I set down the post-it, I’ll look at it later, and, in order to set the mood, I turn on one of my favourite pieces by Bach. The melancholic chords and lamenting voice lull me into a trance and I don’t notice how much I’ve written until it’s nearly 9 o’clock and I realize that I’ve been at this for about 7 hours. I don’t read over what I’ve written; if I do, I’ll probably end up throwing it all out. I get up from my seat, crack my back and stumble out of my dark and cold library. The walls of my house are well insulated but I forgot to start the fire when I was downstairs earlier. I’m about to go down and start the fire so I don’t freeze when my phone rings. 

“What the fuck, Artemis? Seems like I’m popular today,” I grumble to my cat as I grab my phone from the desk where it was charging. It’s Connie, a friend of mine from college. One of the only friends that actually stuck around; he and his fiancé, Sasha, don’t mind my inability to properly hold a conversation. They actually think that I’m fine the way I am, which is why they are the only ones who know about my book. I might not act like it all the time but I really care for those two. Without them, I wouldn’t have any friends other than Artemis, which is sad. I slide my finger across the screen of my phone to answer the call and I’m met with a shrill scream that could only come out of Sasha’s mouth.

“Jeanbo! How are you?!” she asks before I can even say hello. That’s how she’s always been; energetic and loud. But I love her anyway.

“Hi, Tater Tot, I’m well.” Ever since she channeled her inner Napoleon Dynamite and filled her pockets with tater tots so she could snack during her Calculus II class, she’s been stuck with the name of her favourite fried food. 

“Define well, Jean Kirschtein. Have you even left your house this week?”

I chuckle and nod before answering: “Yes, Sash, I’ve been out twice just today.” That does the trick. She gasps and shouts my answer to Connie. Sounds of a scuffle come through my phone’s speaker and then Connie is speaking to me.

“Dude, twice?! What got you out of the house?” his bewildered voice makes me feel a little guilty but then he starts laughing and I start to feel better. Connie always manages to make me feel better, even if he doesn’t know that he’s doing it. Guess that’s why I asked him out in college before he and Sasha got together. Needless to say, he said no. Never treated me differently, though, and I guess that’s why I never saw a reason to stop hanging around him. 

Laughing, I tell him about my lack of food and coffee which draws guffaws from my best friend. Food has always been important to Connie and Sasha, probably because they grew up in poor families with very little chance to have full bellies. I never felt awkward around them because of that, though. I never would have known except for when I found Sasha crying in our apartment one day. Her father had passed and her family had no source of income other than his. She was so worried that she’d have to give up her scholarship and education just so that she could provide for her mother and 3 younger siblings. Connie’s family was also struggling and he was thinking of working to help them. Sasha was almost done with her degree in mathematics and Connie was almost done with his physics degree; I couldn’t let them drop out. Neither of them had known about my financial situation and so I secretly began sending both of their families the money I had made during my summer jobs because I didn’t need it. They found out, though, and I think that’s what strengthened our friendship. They were embarrassed and mad, of course, but, when I explained to them exactly how much money was in my trust fund, they began to feel better about it. A few years later, they offered to pay me back for keeping their families in comfortable living; I told them to give the money to someone who needed it.

“Hey, I almost forgot why we were calling. Do you want to hang out tonight? There’s a pretty good bar in town and I think you’d like the place.” Connie says, drawing me out of my thoughts. I begin shaking a little; a bar means people drinking which means noise and touching and… I can’t do it. Connie senses this, however, and he lets me know that he has the bar reserved for a private party.

“An old classmate of my from high school owns Rose’s Bar and I explained your… apprehension towards social gatherings and he offered to close it down around eleven and only have us along with a few of his friends in the bar.”

“How many friends of his, Connie? I don’t mind it but…” I trail off, hoping he gets the message. I don’t mind a few other people as long as I’m introduced to them but only if it’s not an overwhelming number.

“Just five, if that’s all right with you. His sister and her girlfriend, his best friend, and Reiner and Bertholdt. You remember those two from college, right?” Connie asks, moving on before I can answer him. “Reiner was on the rugby team and Bertl is his boyfriend.”

“Yeah,” I reply slowly, “they had the room right next to us sophomore year, right? They were kind of… loud sometimes.” Connie groans as he probably starts to remember the worst part of dorm life. Reiner and Bertl are great guys and they always respected my personal space; the only problem was their nightly activities. Gods, I couldn’t even look them in the eye the day after a particularly loud session.

Sasha grabs the phone and makes me promise that I’ll come. I make her promise to not get too drunk and we end the call laughing. Those two have always been able to make me laugh even when I’m in one of my “moods”, as Hanji calls them. It’s a little hard to explain my “moods” but I’ll try. Have you ever had a day where you just get bombarded with so many emotions that you shut down? You just sit there, numb, and you can’t seem to shake it off? That’s what happens sometimes. Other times, I have to occupy myself with music and words to make sense of myself. It makes it really hard to communicate with others because I’m always afraid that they’ll see me in one of my “moods” and they won’t want to have anything to do with me. I know that’s not a very good explanation but it’s all I’ve got right now. 

I pick up my cat, open the door to my barely used bedroom, and begin to prepare for my ‘night on the town’. Connie implied that there will be at least two single people, aside from myself. I need to look good but not overdressed. My oversized sweater isn’t going to cut it. Tossing clothes left and right, I finally come across the perfect combination: my forest green cardigan and a dark grey button-up dress shirt. They’ll go perfectly with the pair of light-wash skinny jeans I’ve got laying around here somewhere; they may not be freshly cleaned but I probably only wore them for a few hours before changing into sweats.

Running to the bathroom to check on my hair, I realize that it’s nearly ten o’clock. I grab my hat and my wallet before rushing down the stairs. After putting on my shoes, I head out, praying to all of the deities that tonight goes well and I don’t make a fool out of myself again.


	3. I only go to bars to talk about my 'feelings'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm really loving where this is going, which is a first. Thank you for reading! I'll try to update every week but I am in college so it'll be tough sometimes.

I’m at the bar deciding whether or not to turn right around and avoid the disaster that is sure to happen when Connie opens the door and pulls me inside. The interior of the bar is so different from the outside; the outside was dingy and run-down but the inside… The inside is beautiful in ways that bars never are. It was, in a word, classy. There is a fucking chandelier, for gods’ sakes. The counter is mahogany with a natural finish, the stools are made from the same material as the counter, and the mirrors behind the counter are blocked by shelves upon shelves of high-class liquor. The stage where the band would be is empty and is surrounded by small tables that guests would stand around during performances. I finally look at the people in the bar and am taken aback by how much the same Reiner and Bertholdt look. It’s as if they haven’t aged a day since we all graduated from Stohess University three years ago. 

“Hey, Horseface! How’ve you been these past few years?” Reiner shouts to me as he runs over to give me one of his well-known, titan-strength hugs. Reiner has a body that made him a terror on the rugby field; medium height, heavy build, and a hard head. I’m not saying that he’s overweight or unintelligent; he’s all muscle and finished college with a degree in English Literature, like me. His boyfriend couldn’t be any more different. Bertholdt, who is coming over to give me a less life-threatening hug, is tall and lanky with a mop of dark hair that deeply contrasts the blonde Army-cut that his boyfriend sports. Bertl has always been a bit nervous around people, like me, but he seems to deal with it differently. I mean, the dude’s got a boyfriend that would mess anyone up if they tried to fuck with Bertl. But I’m not saying that that’s the reason why he seems more comfortable. Reiner truly loves Bertholdt, sweat and nervousness included. Seriously, Bertl sweats whenever he feels nervous, which tends to be a lot. But he’s cool.

“Hi, Reiner. I’ve been… well. You?” I reply, hoping that he can’t read my hesitation but hoping does nothing as Mama Braun- mode turns on. Moments later I’m sitting at the bar with Reiner, ignoring the rest of the guests and pouring out the tragedy that has been the past three years. I almost leave out Marlowe, my most recent attempt at romance, but he forces it out of me.

Marlowe was stunning in ways that I can’t describe. They had the most beautiful eyelashes I’ve ever seen. They always showered me in affection, even when I was feeling like a burden. They would always treat me with respect and care. Early on in the relationship, Marlowe confided in me that they were gender fluid. I told them that I didn’t care what gender they were, I liked them for what was on the inside. I mean, I felt fucking lucky that they wanted to be with me. They were always worried, though, and I guess that’s why, after nearly a year of dating, Marlowe told me that they just couldn’t see us having a future together and so they left. I wasn’t heartbroken, to be honest; I was never in love with Marlowe but it still hurt when they left. I mean, breakups are always bad but I thought that maybe it would work out. I blamed myself and spent the next eight months writing. I ended up writing a book which was surprisingly bought by a publisher and money began rolling in. I moved to the townhouse I now share with my cat, Artemis, and I began a whole new life; no social interaction unless forced and nearly all of my time was to be devoted to my work. I managed to keep the social interaction to an absolute minimum but my work has… been slow. I haven’t really felt an inspiration except for Marco. Shit, I thought I had gotten him out of my system and now I can’t stop talking about him with Reiner.

“Marco? This dude have freckles, a great smile, and an ass that would make any hetero man turn?” Reiner asks, as I talk about how much I’ve been thinking about the boy from the coffee shop. His description is very accurate so it leads me to assume, out loud, that Reiner knows Marco.

“Know him? Yeah, sort of. He works night shift here and does some music on occasion. He really is-“ Reiner informs me, droning on and on about how nice the guy’s voice is but I stopped listening a short way in. If Marco works night shift here and does live music, does that mean that he’ll be here tonight? Oh gods, I’ve got to leave. He cannot see me floundering in a social setting; that’ll seal the deal and he won’t ever want to talk to me again. Before I can leave, though, some guy who emanates cockiness sits beside Reiner and I, butting into our conversation, albeit mostly one-sided, quite rudely.

“So who’s the two-toned jerk who couldn’t even say hello to me or my friends, Braun?” he asks Reiner, drawing a sigh from the blonde and an inward remark from me that I should probably not repeat if I want to live through the night. 

“I told you about him, Eren; Jean, meet Eren Yeager, the owner of this fine establishment and cousins with my boy, Bertl,” Reiner says proudly. “Eren, meet Jean Kirschtein, one of my best friends in college.” I’m nearly floored by that introduction; I’ve never really been anyone’s best friend. I don’t even think I’m Connie’s best friend; that place is reserved for Sasha and food. It really means a lot to me and I squeeze the blonde’s arm for a moment to let him know.

“Nice to meet you, Kirschtein. Let me introduce you to my sister, Mikasa, and her girlfriend, Annie.” the bar owner, Eren, says, gesturing towards a sort-of short, dark-haired Asian girl and a short, blonde girl who looks at me like I just killed her dog. I force a smile and a wave; both of the girls are quite beautiful but, seeing as how one of them seems aggressive and the other looks as if she’d rather not be here, I forego the pleasantries and focus on what Eren is saying now.

“I heard you talking about Marco earlier. He should be coming back anytime now; I sent him to the pizza place across town to get us some food. He offered to help out once he came back.” The door of the bar opens and a breeze blows in the smell of warm cheesy goodness. Marco comes in and begins to lay out the pizzas, informing everyone which flavours are available. The rest of the group, including a little blonde guy who I haven’t met yet, head to the pizza while I remain at the bar, contemplating how I can avoid embarrassing myself in front of the beautiful, multi-job working freckled boy. Before my escape plan is fully formed, Marco sees me and his face lights up like fucking Times Square on New Year’s Eve. My heart jumps a little and I feel my face go red from all of the blood that is rushing up to proclaim my embarrassment. He waves at me before talking to Eren, most likely about whether or not he’ll be singing tonight, and I get to look him over while everyone else is distracted by the food.

Marco is wearing the same outfit from the restaurant: black, tight t-shirt and blue jeans. The only difference is the burgundy button-up dress shirt that he’s wearing over the t-shirt. His sleeves are rolled up; gods, does he even notice what he does to me? I’m so lost in my thoughts, some clean and some not, when Marco is suddenly in front of me and asking if he can sit beside me. I force myself to nod and I try not to faint as he slides into the seat, hands gripping the counter, causing my heart to pound so hard that it’s hard to believe that no one else can hear it. 

“So, uh, how do you know Eren?” he asks, glancing down at the counter before his eyes meet with mine.

“I kind of just met him a few minutes ago.” I reply before gesturing over to where Connie and Sasha are stuffing their faces full of pizza. “Those two, Connie and Sasha, are friends of mine from college and they invited me out tonight. Reiner and Bertl, although I haven’t seen them in years, are friends of mine, too” Marco seems a little surprised to hear that or maybe it’s just that I actually spoke without stammering or blushing. 

“Well, it’s nice that you came out with them. I wish I could say that I had stayed in touch with my friends from college but there isn’t really anyone to stay in touch with.” He says, a blush starting to form on his cheeks. Mr. Goodness and Cheer didn’t have any friends while I, Mr. Unsociable and Grumpy, had four? I must have voiced my thoughts out loud because Marco starts giggling, honest to goodness giggles, so hard he almost falls off of his stool.

“You… certainly have… a high opinion of me, Jean,” the freckled man gasps out between giggles. I blush hard and begin pulling at my ear, my go-to when I get nervous or embarrassed. I mutter something about how it’s true or something like that but before I can move on to a less blush-worthy topic, Eren comes up behind the bar.

“What’ll you be drinking tonight, Kirschtein? We’ve got scotch, whiskey, rum, vodka, gin, sake, and some beer.” The green-eyed man asks, pulling out a glass.

“I-I’m good, Eren,” I stammer out, “Just a glass of water for me.” This garners me a look from the cocky bar owner.

“You’re not drinking.” It’s a statement, not a question. “What the fuck did you come here for, then?” Marco tries to help me out but Connie beats him to it. 

“Yo, Eren, can I get a scotch on the rocks?” my buzz-cut friend shouts down the bar. “And Tater Tot here wants your best beer!”

Connie’s request brings Eren down to the other end of the bar, leaving me and Marco alone once again. Marco opens his mouth, most likely to ask me about why I won’t be drinking tonight but I answer him before he can even utter the first word.

“Medication. I can’t drink while I’m on it or else it quits working and I could get sick.” I don’t go into the details of my medication because I don’t want him to worry or, even worse, think I’m a freak and leave.

“Oh, okay. Just thought that you were the designated driver for the night but that totally makes sense.” Marco responds, laying a hand on my arm gently and smiling. “Wouldn’t want you to get sick or anything.”

I tense up when he touches me but I begin to relax when I notice that he doesn’t ask what my medication is. If he knew I was on an anti-depressant he probably would run away screaming. Or at least stop talking to me. Or not. I don’t know. Marco doesn’t seem like the kind of guy to dislike someone for something like this. Marco is… perfect, in a sense. He never seems to get angry, from what I’ve seen, and he always asks after the customers at the coffee shop; he probably does the same here and at the restaurant. Which reminds me, why does he need three jobs? I’m about to ask him when Reiner comes over and whispers something into Marco’s ear; the blonde and Mr. Perfect leave after apologizing.

“You seem quite taken with him.” A voice I don’t recognize says, startling me.

“W-what do you mean?” I ask, turning around to face the stranger. He is short with chin-length blonde hair; cute but not my type. He must be a friend of Eren’s; I think he’s the only one here that I haven’t met yet. He sits down next to me and introduces himself as Armin. He somehow already knows my name but he probably just overheard one of the few conversations I’ve had tonight. Gods, I’m so tired from all of this talking. It’s only been about an hour since we got here, Reiner’s interest in my life after college took up a lot of time, and I think the bar closes down at 2am because of a new city-wide ordinance. I just want to go home but I want to stay here, too, because of  
Marco.

“Don’t even try to deny it; I saw the way your eyes followed him around the room before he came over here.”

I blush and try to come up with some excuse but Armin’s chuckle lets me know that no amount of lying would ever convince him that I want to only be friends with the freckled man. Armin seems easy to talk to and, because I’m feeling extra nervous, I end up pouring my heart out for the second time tonight. Armin sits through it all and only comments where appropriate; it’s so strange that I can trust a stranger like this and I’m not intoxicated. I describe how painful it all is; I only know the guy through the coffee shop (and now the restaurant and here) but I feel like we have a connection, even if the most I’ve ever said to him before today was “good morning”, “I’m fine”, and “I need the strongest fucking coffee you’ve got”. I want to say more, I really do, but I can’t find the right words. Funny, isn’t it, that an award-winning author can’t find the right words to talk to the guy he has a super huge fucking crush on.

“Jean,” Armin calmly interrupts my rambling, “are you scared of what you’ll say to Marco or of what he’ll say to you?”

“Scared? Why would I be scared?” I ask, adding a strained laugh at the end. He raises an eyebrow and looks at me expectantly. “Well, I g-guess you could say it’s a little bit of both. I’m always so blunt and I don’t want to, to lose him, you know? Which sounds stupid, right? I mean, we’ve barely talked.”

I look up into Armin’s eyes and what I see there makes me want to go home immediately; pity is the worst thing anyone could feel towards me. I mean, what do I have to be pitied for? I’m relatively rich, healthy (physically, at least), and I’m not too bad looking. Or am I? I don’t know; Marlowe, well, they never were one for compliments towards physical aspects. I barely looked in the mirror before I left; what if I look horrible and that’s why Marco was so quick to leave with Reiner? Maybe I should just go. Yeah, I should go; I shouldn’t even have come in the first place.

I excuse myself from Armin and shakily make my way over to where Connie and Sasha are sitting, drinking up everything Eren sets in front of them. I catch Sasha’s eye first and she seems to realize what I need and she gets up from her seat, garnering a nod from Connie and a glare from Eren. Big surprise there; assface Yaeger must still be upset about my refusal to drink his shitty alcohol. Seriously, is it that big of a problem?

Sasha and I are outside before I turn to her and break down, not crying but I’m close. I tell her everything that happened in the short time I was away from Connie and I tell her every single fear that arose during and after my conversation with Marco. I feel a shadow threatening to cover me and I feel as if weights have been added to my legs and arms; I can barely keep my head from falling onto Sasha’s shoulder. She takes it all in stride, this isn’t the first time, and she doesn’t speak. There aren’t any words that I’ve ever found that could make me feel any better. I fucking hate how broken I sound.

What feels like hours but is, in reality, only a few minutes later, the bar door is slammed open and a voice behind me is saying something that I can’t understand but then Sasha’s gone and I’m being forced into a vehicle. Buckled into the seat, I don’t look up or say anything; subconsciously, I know that Sasha wouldn’t let anyone take me without a fight unless it were someone she trusted so I sit back, sort of, and wait for the ride to be over. The voice from earlier keeps speaking but I can’t process any of it; my mind is too far deep in itself to try. 

I don’t notice how much time goes by or how far we’ve traveled or even if we’ve moved at all; everything is a blur. The only thing I do notice is the hand that is reaching over my torso to unlatch my seatbelt, the arms that pull me out of the car, and the brush of a hand across my forehead. I need it to stop; they need to stop touching me. Don’t touch me, don’t touch me, don’t touch me. My inner chant must have been vocalized because I feel the person beside me stiffen with surprise and possibly hurt.

More words land upon my ears but I still can’t make sense of them; I try to speak, to tell them that I’m fine, that I can make it home on my own, but the only words that come out are:

“Get the fuck away from me.”

The complete absence of sound and touch are instant; I don’t know whether I should apologize now or wait until I know for sure that I won’t make this any worse. The other person decides for me as they get back in their car, speaking more words before driving off down the street. I look up and see my stupid brick townhouse and then I look into my clenched fist and see my key. Before I can think more about this fuck-up of a night, I march, ashamed, into my house and slam the door. Before I head upstairs for what will be a night graced by sleep, my mind replays the words they had said before leaving:

“You’ve got my number so call me when you’re feeling better, okay?”


	4. Mistakes were made but food fixes everything, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh dear god, this is short. Sorry!

The first words out of my mouth when I wake up are a mixture of all of the swear words I’ve learned over the years and at least ten different attempts at an apology. I look around and see that I didn’t even make it to my room last night; I’m laying facedown against my carpeted stairs. Groaning, I reach for my phone to call Sasha to get a recap from last night.

“Tater Tot, please tell me that what I think happened last night is completely wrong and I can totally go get coffee on Monday without being looked at like I need to be committed,” I burst out the second Sasha answers the phone. She answers me slowly and what I hear makes me want to cry.

“Well, you might want to call Marco and thank him for the ride home.”

I fucked up the worst way I could ever fuck up; he saw me. He saw me; he heard me say those awful things. He’ll never forgive me. 

Tears threaten to fall down my face as Sasha attempts to calm me down over the phone; she’s trying to give me hope where there probably isn’t any. I hang up on her and fall stiffly back onto the stairs. I’m never going to see him again. Who would want to be friends with someone like me? I think back on yesterday and start to pick apart every conversation I had with him and every movement he made and I suddenly remember the post-it note.

There it is, laying on the entryway table. I’m worried about what it will say but Marco’s words come back to me. 

“ _Do not lose that post-it, Jean._ ”

“ _You’ve got my number so call me when you’re feeling better, okay?_ ”

Those words and the memory of his smile are what convince me to unfold it and discover its contents. _Call me~ 555-xxxx_.

Oh my god. I can’t believe what I just read. Does this mean- could this mean- he doesn’t think that I’m horrible? Maybe I should call him and apologize; maybe I could invite him over or something. I could make him dinner, introduce him to Artemis, and apologize for being such an asshat last night.

“Artemis,” I murmur, stroking their soft fur, “do you think he’d come? Maybe if I made something really good for dinner; I can always ask Mom for a recipe. What d’ya think, baby?”

The purr that she responds with convinces me that what I’m about to do is the best choice, even if it may scare me. I grab my phone and punch in his number, hesitating with my finger over the call button. Just as I’m about to give up on myself and lock my phone, Artemis bumps into my hand with her head and the call begins to try to connect. After a few seconds of freaking out and silent screaming, I’m hearing Marco’s voice through the speaker.

“Hello, this is Marco!”

“H-hi, it’s me. Uh, Jean.” He’s going to think I’m crazy; he probably wants nothing to do with me after last night.

“Jean! I- well, I was hoping that you’d call me. I’m so sorry for last ni-“ I cut him off before he can finish.

“Don’t apologize! It’s not your fault, it’s mine. I was an ass last night and I shouldn’t have even gone.” He starts to tell me how I’m wrong, how I shouldn’t feel bad, and how last night was fun even if it got cut short.

“Seriously, Jean. I had a good time talking to you last night. It was really nice to see you outside the coffee shop for once.” My heart leaps a little at that; he really liked talking to me. I wasn’t boring him.

“Really? I-I liked talking to you, too. I was actually wondering if you’d, well…” I can’t do it; I can’t ask him to come over. We’ve barely talked and I told him to fuck off last night. Gods, I’m such an idiot.

“Jean, do you want to get together tonight?” he blurts out of the blue. “I’ve got the weekend off so we could hang out. I mean, I understand if it’s too short of notice but I just thought-“

“Yes!” I’m so fucking excited. He wants to hang out with me. Oh my god, this could be the best day of my life. 

“Really? You’re free?” he replies, sounding like a little kid on Christmas. “Where do you want to go?” Fuck, is it too presumptuous to ask him to come over here? It doesn’t hurt to try, right?

“Would my place work? I don’t really feel like going out. But, if you don’t want to, I can totally go wherever you want.” Soft chuckles come through the speaker and I instantly relax.

“Your place would be great. What time would be best? Do I need to bring anything over?”

“Don’t bring anything; let me handle that. Could you be here around 6:00?”

“Perfect. I’ll see you then. Thanks, Jean. Bye.”

“Bye,” I whisper into the phone after he hangs up. Tonight’s going to be great.

Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me. I don’t know what to make for dinner and Marco’s going to be here in two hours. I even went to the store to buy all of the shit I would need for the next month just to make sure I had enough of a variety of ingredients so that dinner wouldn’t be a total flop. Mom wouldn’t answer her phone and I can’t call Connie or Sasha; they’d never stop reminding me of how this is a date. Oh gods, is this a date? Or are we just hanging out?

My phone rings and jolts me out of my inner monologue. It’s my mother; she’s finally getting back to me.

“Mom, mom, I’m so boned. He’s coming over in two hours and I have no idea what to make for dinner, let alone dessert. Oh gods, do I make pasta? But what if he’s gluten-free? Do I make soup? What do I do, Mom?” I ramble into the phone, cutting off my mother’s greeting and ignoring her attempts to get a word in.

“Jean, honey, what on earth on you talking about? Who’s coming over?”

“Marco! Marco’s coming over, Mom!”

“Is this that barista your cousin Hitch told me about? The one you have a crush on?” Gods, Hitch told my mom about Marco?

“Yes, Mom, and I need to know what to make him for dinner.”

We spend the next hour debating the pros and cons of each and every dish in our repertoire but nothing seems to fit. I need to get cleaned up and make something for dinner. I settle on chicken curry; simple and delicious. I just hope he doesn’t have any allergies; I should have asked him! I hope it doesn’t seem too romantic or anything ‘cause I’m still not sure if this is a date so I don’t want to get carried away. I don’t know why, but I feel really confident about tonight; rather, as confident as I can be.

One hour later, dinner is made and I’m dressed nicely but not too nice. I’m wearing one of my mom’s old oversized cardigans, which are a gift to humankind, with a white tee and a simple pair of jeans. A knock at the door lets me know that Marco’s here; let the “date-is it a date-totally a date” begin.


	5. All you need is faith, trust, and a little bit of pixie dust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to everyone reading this; I never thought it'd get more than 2 or 3 views! The next chapter may be out next week as planned but right now I've got three papers and a huge outreach project I have to work on so writing time is limited. I'll try really hard though!

Opening the door, I slide my other hand along the leg of my jeans, wiping all of the sweat off so I can greet him properly. Do you greet someone who comes over to your house for what seems like a date with a handshake? I don’t know the answer but it never hurts to try.

“Hey.” The breathless greeting pulls me out of my thoughts and I whip my hand up into position. Laughing, Marco takes my hand and gives it a light squeeze before walking into my home. 

“Nice place you’ve got here, Jean,” he states, looking around appreciatively and I give a relieved sigh. I was so worried that it wasn’t clean enough. “What do you do for a living? Hanji mentioned something about writing; are you a journalist?”

“Eh? Journalist? N-no,” I stammer out. “I write poetry and books. I’ve only sold one though.”

“Oh, really? That’s great! I’m so happy for you.”

This man doesn’t fully understand what his words mean. Small words of encouragement go a lot further than people realize. It feels amazing to have your efforts validated by someone acknowledging your work. But now isn’t the time to get into all of that.

“So, I was thinking we could, um, watch a movie?” A movie would prevent conversation but it wouldn’t really be awkward. “I made curry but I wasn’t sure if you had any allergies so I-I can make something else if you want; I wasn’t sure what to make and I was running out of time so I just…” Marco reaches out and rests his hand on my shoulder and reassures me that whatever I made is fine and that a movie sounds great. 

We bring our food out to the living room; Artemis is sitting right in the middle of the couch and I don’t have the heart to move her so we sit around her. Marco instantly adores her and asks me all sorts of questions: ‘When did I get her? What’s her name?’ Afterwards, we debate over which movie to watch and settle on some superhero movie, fuck if I know the name; I spend the duration of the movie sneaking glances at Marco, taking in his long legs and torso. He’s wearing a sweater vest, a goddamn sweater vest, overtop a white dress shirt. And it’s not one of those classy sweater vests either; it’s like someone threw mustard on it and painted navy blue on it after the condiment had tried. It’s nasty and he looks fucking sexy as hell. I’m nearly drooling and my fingers twitch with the desire to reach out and touch him but instead I move them to pet Artemis. It’s always better to pet your cat than to awkwardly touch your friend who you might be on a date with.

“Hey, Jean?” Marco’s words break through the silence and I realize that the movie is over; now there’s no barrier blocking conversation.

“You wanna watch another movie?” he asks. “I don’t work tomorrow so I don’t have to leave right away. I mean, only if you’re okay with it. I don’t want to overstay my welcome.”

“That’s fine with me only… can we pick something different? I wasn’t really paying attention to the last movie.” I really hope he didn’t notice; please tell me you didn’t notice.

“I noticed,” he chuckles. My face burns with mortification but, before I can stammer out an excuse, Marco’s phone rings and he leaves the room to answer it.

“Shit, Artemis. I’m being a bit too obvious here, aren’t I?” 

Why do I always talk to my cat? She’s a fucking cat and all she does is meow in various tones to everything I say; she can’t understand me but maybe that’s why it feels so refreshing whenever I talk to her. She can’t tell me that what I feel is wrong. I am so glad that my therapist told me to get her; I don’t know what I’d do without the little black fur ball.

Picking her up, I sigh longingly; when will I ever be fully comfortable around him? He noticed that I wasn’t paying attention to the goddamn movie and now he probably thinks I’m weird or creepy. What if he’s talking to someone to get an excuse to leave? Would he do that? I don’t think so but I can’t be sure. A shiver runs down my spine as I think about what he’s going to say when he gets back. The worst thing he could do is outright lie to me, saying that something came up and he has to go. But it might not be a lie. I’m just gonna have to trust him, no matter what my mind says.

“Sorry about that, Jean.” Marco says as he walks back into the living room and sits down right where Artemis was laying a few minutes ago, his thigh brushing up against mine. He’s never really been this close to me and it’s shocking. “It was my father but I told him I’d call him back later. We were going to watch another movie, right?”

All my fears rush out of me as I sit there, basking in the warmth of his smile. I need to apologize, again, for the incident last night. He needs to know why I was such an ass.

“Marco?” I pray to all the deities that may be that he doesn’t hate or become afraid of me after this. “I’ve got something I need to tell you. It’s about last night.”

“Alright.”

“I’m really sorry for saying such awful things to you last night; I never meant for you to see that side of me. I’m usually pretty good at getting out of or avoiding situations that cause me to react that way before anyone can see but I wanted to stay because you were there.” I’m letting it all out and I can’t stop now. He needs to know everything and if I never see him again after this, then fine. At least he knows. “I have an anxiety disorder and it makes being out in public, especially with people I haven’t been around for very long, difficult; it affects other areas of my life as well. I really wanted to see you and get to know you better and that’s why I stayed past my limit. Armin’s the one that tipped me over the edge and caused me to lash out like that, but I don’t blame him. It would have happened sooner or later. I barely remember the car ride home because I was just so focused on getting back to normal. I didn’t want to be a burden and I ended up hurting you and I’m sorry.”

He sits there for a while as I catch my breath and I’m tempted to run up to my room, never to come out again, but he takes my hand and I suddenly feel the need to cry. He’s being so gentle, I don’t know what to do.

“Jean, you have nothing to apologize for. I just didn’t know what was wrong and I’m entirely at fault for your actions last night. I kept prying and invading your space and I’m sorry. Don’t apologize for something that isn’t your fault. If you’re comfortable talking about it, could you tell me what you need me to do in situations like last night? I want to be here for you, Jean.”

And so, I tell him. Every last detail of what I go through and what I need. It’s so refreshing to have someone ask me what I need rather than them telling me that they feel horrible that they can’t do anything to help. I always feel guilty and like I’m a burden on them but Marco makes me feel like I come first.

“I don’t know why, but I trust you, Marco. There’s just one thing I need to know: why? Why are you doing this? Why do you care?” I can feel my tears starting to trickle down my face but I make no move to dry them; that can wait until I hear his answer. What he says will have a greater impact than he could possibly imagine and so I pray. I pray for him to tell me the truth and I pray that the truth won’t hurt as much as I fear it might.

“Jean, there isn’t a reason in the world for me to not care about you. Whenever you come into the shop, whether you’re feeling well or not, I smile just because you’re there.” Marco’s reassuring smile relaxes me a bit. “And, no matter what mood you’re in, you always take the time to help those around you. Remember that woman who was being harassed outside the shop? You just grabbed her arm and brought her inside, away from danger. You didn’t even know her! And remember that woman who couldn’t afford to get her son a muffin because she forgot her wallet at home and only had a little bit of cash on her? You paid for her coffee, his muffin, and gave her twenty dollars for the day! You always take time for others and you never ask for anything in exchange. You’re one of the kindest people I’ve ever met, even if your disposition can be confusing at times. But you know what, Jean?”

By this time I’m full-on sobbing but I manage to shake my head to allow him to continue.

“I have so many reasons to care about you but the only one that really matters is that you are a person. A person who deserves to be loved and cared for just because it’s a basic right.” He leans his forehead down to mine and wraps his arms around me, holding me in his strong embrace. His eyes won’t leave mine, even after the tears begin trickling down _his_ face.

We sit like this until Artemis begins to squirm and we break apart laughing. Hearing all of his reasons and knowing that, even if none of them had ever happened, he’d still care makes me feel as if a huge weight has been lifted from my shoulders. I’ve been waiting all my life to hear someone say that they care, not because of who I am or what I’ve done for them but because I am a person and I matter. My mother always tells me that she cares because I’m her son and my friends all say that they care because of something I’ve done for them or of how I act around them when all I want is for someone to care without reason and Marco does.

Marco lifts his hand to my face, wiping my tears and I lean ever so slightly into his touch. The night has taken a turn that I never saw coming but, although it’s been full of tears, I don’t regret anything.


	6. Best Friends and Bad Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a bit late! School was a pain and I got stuck. But here it is! 
> 
> WARNING: nightmares are shitty bro

Marco left late last night but only after some assurance from him that he wouldn’t hate me or stop talking to me; you know, just the regular old “Jean has no confidence in himself or his relationships” stuff. We never did get around to that second movie but we did speak a little more. He promised to call me this week to make plans; this is good. This means we’re at least friends, unless I read too much into his farewell greeting…

A knock at my door and a shout let me know that Connie and Sasha have arrived for our weekly (but really it’s only whenever we’re able) Sunday lunch. I usually look forward to these dinners; we rarely get to spend time together since they started teaching and I started a new medication that made me sick for a while. Right now, however, I’d rather be lying in bed replaying the events of last night, especially the moments right before Marco left…

“Jeanbo! Let us in!” Sasha yells as she pounds on the door. “I gotta piss and Connie’s gonna drop our shit!”

I open the door and am almost knocked down by a blur of a person who I assume is Sasha; Connie drags the bags of food into my kitchen and we start some small talk as we wait for Sasha; we don’t talk about anything too important because Sasha would freak if I disclosed the events of last night when she wasn’t around.

“Gods, Sasha, how long does it take to piss?” Connie shouts into the hallway garnering a muffled reply from the bathroom. I take it upon myself to set the table and get the food on the plates. Connie and Sasha always cook and bring the food here because I can barely cook anything unless it comes in a box and even then it doesn’t always turn out right.

A few minutes later and we’re all shoveling food into our faces as I wait for the right time to tell them about last night; they are so gonna freak. I start giggling to myself just from imagining their faces.

“Yo, dude, what’s up with you? You seem happier than usual.” Connie grabs me from behind, spins me around, and squeezes my face, hindering me from answering.

Sasha sprints from the bathroom, picks me up, and spins me around, laughing the entire time. She probably can guess why I’m so happy seeing as how I told her that Marco was coming over.

“He’s happy, my dear, because of a certain freckled boy. Isn’t that right, Jeanbo?”

“Well, I guess. Marco did come over last night.”

Squeals of various tones hit my ears and I run to the living room to escape the onslaught of questions that are sure to come out of both Sasha and Connie’s mouths, knowing full well that I can never outrun them and that I don’t want to. I welcome the idea of telling them about last night; nothing would make me happier than to relive one of the happiest nights I’ve had in a while.

“Jean Kirschtein, you tell me every fucking detail of last night or so help me!” Connie is the first to reach me, tackling me into my couch and tickling every inch of skin he can reach. Screaming with laughter, I struggle to get words out; as soon as Connie hears Marco’s name he stops holding me down and lets me speak.

“Marco came over last night and we just hung out. Nothing really special, guys.” I’m breathless from the tickling but I get the words out anyway. I want to keep them guessing and freaking out; it may seem selfish, but I really love it when they pay attention to me like this. I hate being the center of attention but I love receiving attention, if that makes sense.

“Jean, that is utter bullshit and you know it. Now give us the details!” Sasha’s joined us in the living room, a bowl of chips in her hand and crumbs spewing out of her mouth. 

“Fine, Tater Tot, fine.” Might as well get this over with. “Marco came over last night, as I already said. We had dinner, we watched a movie, we talked, he left, and that’s all.”

“What did you talk about? What movie did you watch? What did you eat? Details, Jean, you’re a goddamn writer; act like it!”

“I already told you. Nothing special really happened last night.” The looks they give me let me know that they don’t believe me. I wanted to drag this out a little bit more but I guess it’s time.

“Alright! I spent about three fucking hours freaking out about what to make, I ended up making a shitty curry, he lied and said it was fine, we watched some superhero movie that I couldn’t pay attention to because he looked fucking hot in his ugly-ass sweater vest, he noticed I wasn’t paying attention, and I ended up telling him about my anxiety, I cried, he hugged me, and then he left, okay?” I’m out of breath by the time I finish recanting last night’s events, albeit vaguely. 

“Oh, darling, are you alright?” Sasha’s giving me a look bordering on pity, almost the exact look that Armin had when I talked to him about Marco. This time, however, I react very differently; I laugh.

“Alright? I’m better than alright; I’m great, I’m perfect, I’m ecstatic!” Connie and Sasha are staring at me like I just stripped naked and streaked through town.

“He kissed me last night before he left!” 

The silence that follows is so heavy that I can hardly breathe. I wish someone would say something; I mean, is it so shocking that someone would kiss me? Yes, actually yes it is. The last person who kissed me was Marlowe and that was just a formality at Hitch’s birthday last year.

“You don’t have to seem so shocked; he only kissed me on the cheek.” 

“Oh my god, you cannot just say he kissed you without giving details!” Sasha replies, pouting. “Even if it was on the cheek, that means he totally has a thing for you!”

“Careful, babe, you don’t want to get his hopes up.” Connie, the voice of reason in their relationship, says. “I mean, I kiss Jean on the cheek when we leave; maybe it’s just a thing Marco does.”

“Connie Springer, when there is hope to be had, let the man have it!”

“It’s fine, Tater Tot, let’s just focus on dinner now. I don’t want to overthink it and worry about it.” 

Which is what I end up doing anyway. Different explanations for the kiss last night run through my head every second as we eat and nothing that Connie or Sasha say or do is enough to distract me. I can’t stop wondering if the kiss meant something special or if it meant anything at all. I could call Marco but that’d be too weird, right? He might even stop talking to me if I pressure him.

“Hey, Connie? You guys… Do you guys ever get tired of me?” I don’t know where this feeling came from but if Marco can get tired of me then they can too.

“Oh, _honey_ , of course not. Sasha and I love you so much, we could never get tired of you.” 

Sasha grabs my face and gives me a big kiss on my forehead; the reassurance these two give me means everything to me. I know my mother loves me but when love comes from someone you don’t expect it from, it means so much more. At least, to me it does. I know I say it a lot, but I don’t know what I’d do without these two. 

The rest of the day is spent watching sad romance movies; Sasha sits on the couch, stoic and a little bit uninterested, while Connie and I have moved to the floor, sobbing and holding each other. Sasha never cries during these movies, she just points out the flaws in each of the characters that make it obvious that the relationship won’t work out. It’s the same thing Connie does for sci-fi movies and I do with book adaptations. Seriously, some of those book adaptations are horrendous and completely miss the point of the book. Pride and Prejudice? They focused on the romance and not the character development they both undergo to relinquish their intolerance towards people they deem stupid or unworthy and accept others for who they are. But I’m getting too worked up over this. 

After subjecting ourselves to the pain of three of the sad romance movies in my collection, Connie and Sasha leave. They both have to work tomorrow, nurturing the minds of youth, according to them; I call it forcing children to memorize useless material but, hey, it’s a job. But now I’m alone in my too-large-for-a-single-person house; the only good thing about this place is the neighbourhood. Nobody bothers you, nobody expects you to talk to them. Yes, there are some families here but mostly it’s just elderly people waiting to die. I know that sounds cynical and rude but it’s the truth. They have no family that comes to visit them and when I tried to show a little neighbourly hospitality, I got a broom to the face. I wonder how it must feel to know that you are dying and know that there’s no one around to love you anymore. Children grow up, have children of their own, and become invested in a life that doesn’t involve you. I don’t want that to happen to me but I know that, no matter what I do, it will. Even if I never have children, my mother will die and my friends will have families and I’ll just be left here, alone, trying to love myself enough to make it through each day. 

No one ever tells you how to love yourself; sure, they may tell you to do it by eating healthy or exercising but is that really what loving yourself means? I eat organic most of the time and I only walk whenever I need to go out, but does that mean that I love myself? No. In fact, I don’t really like anything about myself. I just exist: I eat, I drink, I write, and sometimes I talk to people. That’s it. Nothing else happens in my life because I don’t think I’m worth it. I don’t believe that I’m worth wasting other people’s time and I don’t want them to waste my time, even though I never do shit. I so desperately want to be accepted for who I am but I don’t know who that person is; if you don’t know who you are then how can you love yourself? 

People come and go but you are always with yourself, you can’t ever leave because it’s physically impossible. And believe me, I’ve tried. I’ve tried to leave myself behind and find someone new to be but it just doesn’t work; little bits and pieces of your past come back and force their way out into the open and then it’s too late to pretend any longer. You remember who you really are, as corny as that sounds, and you revert back to your regular routine which, in my case, is sitting around hating yourself because you can’t find one thing worth loving and maybe that’s why your mother moved back to New York City and maybe that’s why Marlowe left, maybe that’s why Armin looked at you with pity. Maybe that’s why your father left; he knew, even before you were born, that you weren’t worth raising, you weren’t worth loving, and you sure as hell aren’t worth the air you breathe so weakly. 

I’m getting worked up and I can’t stop the thoughts; they’re always there, haunting me, tormenting me, teasing me into thinking that I might have a chance and then crushing any hope that I may have found and desperately tried to hold onto. Hope comes to me in tiny pieces, fractured from a larger hope that I had when I was a child, and they flit and flutter away whenever I hold on too tightly. But I never stop trying, never stop holding on for dear life to those little shards of hope and happiness that somehow find their way into my worthless life. 

I reach for my inhaler only to find that it’s empty; another trip to the pharmacy is needed but I can’t go now because they’re closed. I sit and try to wait out the pain by taking a few deep breaths because for some reason I think it’ll help. It never does. I crawl up my stairs and somehow make it to my bedroom before collapsing, exhausted and ashamed, into my bed only to lie awake for hours upon hours as I wait for sleep to take me. 

The dreams that come with sleep are worse than usual: I see Marco, bloody and broken, lying on the street. I see Mother, sobbing and tearing her hair out, sitting on my steps. Connie and Sasha are glaring at me, I can feel their hatred in my hands and my heart as I try to reach out to them. Christa, my therapist, is laughing at me, saying how horrible of a person I am, how weak and disgusting I am, how it makes her sick to have to work with someone, something, like me. Hanji is laughing maniacally as I turn to them for help, reassurance, anything. People I’ve never seen before grab me and throw me into this never ending pit full of all of the horrible thoughts that have plagued me over the years. I see my father, a man I’ve only known through pictures and news articles, yelling obscenities at me; my publisher, Levi, is burning my papers, laughing at what I’ve written. Armin is there, staring at me with pity in his eyes and a knife in his hands and I don’t know which does more damage: the pity or the knife that is now stuck between my ribs. Eren is behind his bar pouring me a drink of vodka and arsenic, leering at me saying, “ _Just one little drink won’t hurt you, Kirschtein. Or maybe it will, who knows? I’d like to find out, though."_

Marco is there, too, but it’s worse than the others. He leans forward, as if he’s trying to help me, to rescue me, but his hands only push me deeper and deeper into the abyss and I’m falling falling falling falling falling falling faster and faster and I can’t stop, there’s nothing to grab onto, no hands that will save me. Only Marco, his face twisted into an expression I’ve never seen on his face before: hatred. Pure, unrelenting hatred and I scream but I can’t wake up, won’t wake up because I’m looking at him, seeing him and I don’t want to look away even if it means escaping this torment. No matter what I tell myself, no matter what my eyes see, my hands still reach out for him, my mind still hopes that he’ll save me and it is with this thought that I finally wake up, screaming and crying into the morning sun. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I won't be updating until May because of finals but you can come talk to me on my [tumblr](http://www.kirschbooty.tumblr.com)  
> I'll be tracking the tag HiWMFD on tumblr and I'll be putting things in my fic stuff link!


	7. Therapists are wonderful conversationalists, unlike me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the delay! Things got out of hand and my brain couldn't process things really well after finals so I hope this is good. Thanks for all of the comments (they seriously nearly made me cry) and for being so patient.

It’s been a few days since my nightmares and I haven’t slept since. I can’t, I won’t sleep because I know that only worse nightmares will come. It’s Wednesday, I think, if my memory is correct and that means my mother will be here tonight for dinner. I don’t know if I’ll be able to handle the sickly sweet comments from her; she tries and tries to understand and I love her for it. But everything she says just makes things worse. She always tells me to talk to her about how I’m feeling but when I do, she turns it around to be about herself, an old habit from her modeling days, I guess.

Fear of sleeping has caused me to use up my coffee supply that should have lasted me the rest of the month and so now I have to decide whether to brave the outside and get more, which means possibly seeing Marco, or if I should risk sleeping. Neither options seem ideal at the moment so I force myself to pick up my phone and call Christa. Maybe she has an opening today and we can talk about what’s going on because my meds obviously aren’t working as well as they should.

Three rings sound in my ear before a charming and delicate voice says:

“Hello, this is Christa speaking, how may I help you?”

I breathe, trying to figure out just how to word the desperate feeling that’s taken root in my chest. I speak into the phone, voice rough and raspy from days of not being used, and relay all of the details from the past week. She seems to understand, asking me if I need to come in today.

“One of my clients actually just canceled, if you’d like to come in today. The appointment’s in 15 minutes, though, so I don’t know if you’ll be up for it so soon.”

“I’ll be there,” I tell her, desperation and exhaustion heavy in my heart and in my voice. “I’ll get a cab and be there right on time.”

After hanging up the phone and rushing to get dressed, I’m walking to her office. I know I told her that I would call a cab but I don’t think I could handle being in a car right now. I’m already not in control of myself, if I was in a car that I wasn’t driving it would just make everything worse.

The air is cold on my face as I force myself to walk down the street; the weather has taken a turn for the worse and winter is coming faster than expected. Winter is my favourite season, even though I hate the cold. It allows me to hole up in my house for months without anyone hounding me about it. Not that there’s many people in my life to hound me about it, that is.

Just a few more blocks until I reach the office and I’ve got ten minutes to get there. I’m in the downtown area now and I can see the coffee shop from where I stand, the windows decorated with some bizarre theme just the way Hanji likes it. I want to rush over and check if Marco is there but I know he isn’t, it’s too late in the day for him to be there. He’s probably at the restaurant right now, just finishing up. A wave of guilt comes over me, nearly choking me with its intensity. I haven’t called or texted Marco all week and my cell’s been off. I’ve had to rely on my wall phone at home for all of my calls because I haven’t had the energy to turn on my cell. Marco’s probably texted or called me a few times but… what if he’s angry that I haven’t been answering? Or what if he hasn’t texted or called at all? What if he wants nothing to do with me after finding out about my anxiety, even though he said he did?

A car almost hits me as I’m crossing the street and I’m in too much of a daze to turn and yell at them. Marco’s been taking up too many of my thoughts lately; before, my thoughts were filled with basic, mundane things and the occasional reverence of how beautiful the sky looks when you’re crying but never have I ever focused so much on one human being. I don’t know if I’m happy, scared, or angry but at least I’m feeling something.

I find myself climbing the stairs up to Christa’s office and I realize that I don’t know what to say to her; how do I explain the fear, the longing, and the bewilderment that I’ve come to know ever since meeting Marco? How do I tell her that I think I might be falling in love with someone who deserves so much better than me? She knows nearly everything about me; she knows about my parents, my childhood, and she knows about Marlowe but telling her something new hasn’t happened before and I don’t know how to bring it up. I don’t want to blurt it out because what if it’s not important? What if I’m wrong and I really just care about Marco as a friend?

A door slams shut in the hallway and brings me back to reality. I need to do this; if I don’t tell her then she can’t help me and what I really need is someone to tell me what to do. I knock on her door, the wood solid beneath my fist, and the door is quickly opened by Christa, her blonde hair tied up in an intricate bun and her blue eyes staring happily up at mine. The one good thing about today is being able to see Christa; no matter how much I hate talking about my problems, I love seeing her. She brings a sort of brightness into my day that isn’t there usually, even if the sun is shining.

“Jean, it’s so good to see you,” she says, grabbing my hands in her own and smiling up at me. “We haven’t spoken in a while. Come in and have a seat. White tea, as usual, correct?”

I nod and take a seat close to the wall, away from the window. Her office is on the fifth floor and I can’t look out her window without nearly passing out so she rearranged the room so that there would be a sitting area where I would feel comfortable. She always does things like that, making her clients feel comfortable, no matter how hard it may be. She once imported a special kind of tea for a client that couldn’t relax well enough to talk unless they had a cup of it in their hands. She truly cares about each and every one of us and I guess that’s why I’ve never thought of searching for another therapist, even though Christa very busy with the amount of clients she has. She’s never been able to turn anyone away and it hurts her to see any of her clients leave so she tries to balance everything and I worry about her sometimes. I worry that she doesn’t have time for herself outside of work and I worry that she doesn’t have anyone to talk to.

The aroma of the tea wafts over me as she sets it down on the little coffee table in front of us; she’s added an essence of pomegranate, judging by the light scent that hangs in the air. She sits beside me and waits for me to sip my tea before she speaks; she never sits across from her clients, she says it gives an air of formality that she dislikes and she wants us to think of her as a friend so that we’re comfortable speaking with her.

“So, what’s been going on lately, Jean? We haven’t spoken in a while. Is your mother doing well?” Normal conversation, easy to hear and easy to respond to. I can do this.

“She’s doing well; we’re having dinner tonight, actually.” I breathe out, my voice heavy with the weight of implications and the taste of the tea.

“Ah, I see. Are you excited that she’s coming or just a wee bit worried? Is there anything she might ask about that you aren’t comfortable with?” Her bell-like voice resonates in my ears and it’s like she can read my mind. I start to tell her about Marco, about how we met, about last weekend, and all the while she’s just nodding, occasionally touching my arm and refilling my cup. When I tell her about the kiss, however, she stiffens slightly, almost unnoticeably.

“Jean, you said you knew, definitely, that he only thought of you as a friend, am I correct?” I nod, knowing full well where this is going. “Then why would he give you his number, drive you home while you were unwell, and give you a kiss goodbye? Could there be any other reasoning?”

“It’s the only explanation. Why would someone like Marco, completely perfect in nearly every way, like someone like me, who needs 15 post-its to remind them to eat or take a shower?” I give an empty laugh at the end, hoping that it convinces her that I’m fine. It doesn’t and she squeezes my arm tight before taking a sip of her tea.

“Jean, the way you talk about this man tells me that you care deeply for him, right? And from what I’ve heard about him, he seems to care for you just as much. Why don’t you-“

“No, no he doesn’t. It’s just wishful thinking and he’s probably just being overly nice because he feels sorry for me.” Nothing she says will ever change my mind; Marco only thinks of me as a friend. Friends give each other their numbers and rides home and hugs and kisses on the cheek all the time, right? So why should it be any different with Marco?

“Well, I won’t try to convince you of anything but just consider it, alright?” Christa seems tired, maybe I shouldn’t have come in today but I needed to talk to her. “I’ve got another appointment coming in so do you want to schedule your next one right now or should we wait?”

I tell her to wait until I meet with Levi, my publisher, again and we hug before I leave. Her door squeaks but I can still hear her sigh as I leave the room. She’s always worrying that I won’t come back and I get where she’s coming from. My appointments are either once a week or once a month, never consistent and never pre-planned. I’m mumbling to myself about what to make for dinner tonight when I bump hard into someone. I’m about to flip them the bird or chew them out or something when I notice freckles and a shocked expression that I’ve definitely seen before.

“Marco? W-what are you-“

“Jean! H-hi, funny running into you here. I was just-“ We speak at the same time and end up laughing nervously at the palpable tension in the hallway. Neither of us seems to want to say exactly why we’re here and, I’m not sure why, but it bothers me that Marco won’t tell me why. But then again, I won’t tell him although he can probably guess.

“You haven’t been answering your phone this week and I was getting worried. I was almost ready to go to your house and check on you but you, uh, you seem fine.” Marco’s voice wavers a tad at the end and I flush, remembering how awful I look in my tattered sweats and jacket, and how I haven’t turned on my cell for days.

“Cell died…” I murmur, hoping he understands what I’m trying to say. I take the time during his confusion to look him over, hopefully I’m subtle, and I notice that he, as usual, looks amazing. Dark jeans, some ratty sneakers, and a leather jacket make up his outfit today which is a stark contrast from what I last saw him wear. I swallow hard and force myself to look him in the face, if only for a few seconds, and see that he’s smiling now.

“Well, as long as you weren’t ignoring me on purpose, I guess I can forgive you.” Gods, his voice and the smile he gives me is pure heaven; I can’t even respond because I’m too enraptured by all of it. He’s asking me about dinner tonight now but, still in a daze, I don’t fully comprehend what he’s saying, mumbling an answer and his reaction startles me. A huge grin is on his face and he seems to be leaning forward for a hug. Jesus’ balls, he’s gonna hug me. I brace myself for the contact but before it comes, Christa pops out of her office.

“Hey, Marco! Glad you’re here a bit early, I can show you to Petra’s new office.” She says, smile on her lips and in her eyes, before she notices that I’m still in the hallway, wringing my hands with embarrassment. “Jean, you’re still here? Is something-“ and realization shows on her face when she makes the connection between the Marco she knows and the Marco I’m pining after. She stammers out an excuse to retreat back into her office, giving me time to give Marco a proper goodbye: a hug, albeit a stiff one, and a promise to call him in a few hours.

“Alright, I’ll see you tonight at your place then!” Marco replies, walking away before I can say anything. Did I actually hear what I just heard? Is Marco coming over for dinner? With my mother? What have I gotten myself into?


	8. Mother meets the new (boy)friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, sorry for the wait! I've been feeling pretty down lately and work has been a pain so I couldn't spend the amount of time I wanted to on this.

I’ve been walking around in a daze for the past hour and I don’t even know where the fuck I am. I could be halfway to the next city by now and I have to go home to make dinner for my mom and now Marco. I don’t know if I can do this. Both of them in the same room, mom making all of her usual comments about me finding a good partner, Marco glancing at me with those gorgeous eyes; it’ll be too much for me to handle. I should call Sasha and Connie to see if they wanna come over too because, fuck it, let’s just have a party. But, what if Marco thinks it’s a date? What if he thinks I’m doing the cliché “introducing my partner to my parent” thing. I mean, I would but are we even together? I know we aren’t “official” but what if he thought, like I did, that last Saturday was a date?

A loud noise startles me and shakes me from my thoughts; I’ve walked back home apparently and my mother is waiting in her car, two hours early.

“Jean, dear, did you forget about our dinner tonight?” her playful tone reassures me that she isn’t angry but I still feel a bit guilty, even though she did show up early. She steps out of her car, some kind of foreign sedan, and I’m taken aback by how amazing she looks. It’s been a bit since I’ve seen her dressed fancily and, even though it’s only a simple dinner at home, she’s gone all out. She looks like she just walked out of Breakfast at Tiffany’s, except her hair is blonde and graying. She has a few more wrinkles than Audrey Hepburn but I think she’s more beautiful because of them. Artemis paws at the door, meowing at the sight of my mother. Artemis loves my mother so much, I swear she would rather live with her than me. Everyone loves my mother more than they love me, in my opinion, but I don’t mind. My mother is amazing and better than me in nearly every way.

“Jean, you seem preoccupied; what is it?” Mom’s soft voice calls out to me. How do I even begin to tell her that the guy I’m obsessing over was accidentally invited to a private family dinner? Do I just tell her that he’s coming over? Will she be mad? What if this is the mistake that makes her finally hate me?

“Uh, Mom? Don’t be mad,” I pause before finishing, taking a deep breath to steel myself for her reaction. “But, I kind of, uh, invited Marco over tonight, too.” I’m not even sure that she hears the final part; I started mumbling right away, cringing internally to the mental image of her losing her shit.

“Marco? Is that the cute boy you went on a date with last weekend?” A coy smile forms on her lips as I groan and try to explain that “Mo-om, it wasn’t a date. He just came over to watch a movie.” But nothing deters my mother when it comes to my lovelife and she spends the next hour prying into every detail of the “date” while we cook dinner. Not even the aroma of her famous beef stew can ease the tension in my body when I finally hear a knock on the door and realize that I haven’t even changed out of my sweats from this morning. I shout to my mom to answer the door as I sprint up the stairs, praying that I have something clean to wear that won’t make me look like a pretentious asshat. 

A few minutes later, I run back down the stairs, almost knocking into Marco. I stammer out an apology as I run my hand through my hair, taking in the sight of him. God, he’s wearing exactly what he wore earlier but I’m still overwhelmed by how amazing he looks. Mother clears her throat and I jump, embarrassed that she caught me staring. But I can’t help it! Marco turns to my mother and offers to help with setting the table and preparing anything else but she just gives him a giggle (god, she’s ridiculous around attractive people) and tells him to sit down. Right. Next. To. Me. How am I supposed to eat when I’ve got a guy next to me who looks like he stepped out of fashion magazine?

“So, Marco I’ve heard a lot about you from Jeanbo here,” my mother says, garnering a giggle from Marco and a groan from me at the inclusion of my nickname, “But I’d love to hear more.”

“Well, there’s not really much to tell, Ms. Kirschtein. I grew up in Jinae and went to university here in Trost. After that, well, here I am, a barista-slash-waiter-slash-bartender, struggling to pay off student loans.” He adds a laugh at the end as my mom’s eyes widen.

“You have a proper place to stay, right?” Mother’s voice breaks slightly, probably remembering her struggle to survive after finishing school. But Marco only shrugs and mumbles something about a loft on the southside.

“No, no, Marco, I won’t let you live there anymore.” Jesus, she sounds angry. I haven’t been to the southside in a while so I don’t really remember how bad it is but it must be pretty bad if Mother is getting this upset. She starts going on about other places she can find for him, asking him about friends he could stay with and suddenly I blurt out:

“He can stay with me!”

Their eyes land on me and I can barely breathe with how heavy their stares are. I mutter a bit about having an extra room and bathroom and Marco’s and my mother’s faces light up. Jesus, it’s like I told them they won the fucking lottery or something. I mean, it’s just a place to stay, right? He’s just going to sleep in my house, where I sleep, and live where I live and oh my god, this is such a bad idea! I won’t be able to relax if he’s constantly with me. I go to retract my offer, like the asshole I am, but he’s already gushing about how thankful he is and how kind I am and oh my god his smile is so beautiful I can’t help but blush and say nothing. My mother takes over the conversation, thankfully, and I zone out to recover from his fantastic smile but soon I hear my mother ask the most embarrassing question.

“So, Marco, dear, how long have you and Jeanbo been together?”

I drop my fork and Marco’s face pales; how blunt can she be? And how am I supposed to answer this if I don’t even know myself?

“O-only for a few-“ Marco begins before I cut him off with a shout.

“We aren’t together!” Blood rushes to my cheeks as Marco’s face drops. He looks so disappointed in my answer but why? We aren’t together, right? At least, we haven’t talked about it.

Mother coughs to fill the silence and we finish the meal awkwardly discussing topics such as her career and how living in Trost is for both of us. Marco and I don’t make eye contact for the rest of the night, finally speaking when I walk him to his car.

“Jean, why did you tell your mother we weren’t-“ he begins, looking at me sadly.

“Because we aren’t?” I phrase my statement in the form of a question so that he can answer because I honestly don’t know. I hope he doesn’t think I’m making light of this because he doesn’t understand how I feel. He doesn’t understand how my heartbeat quickens whenever I see him; he doesn’t understand how, even though it never really goes away, my anxiety is dampened whenever he’s near me. I may not be able to fully express what I want to when he’s around me but I know that, with time, I can grow used to this different heartbeat and this different pain and find comfort in it but only if he tells me what I need to hear.

“Do you, do you want to be?” He asks, gripping my hand and looking into my eyes. And the small smile that graces his lips as I nod and entwine our fingers makes all of the odd heartbeats, the pangs of anxiety, and the fear of being close to someone almost fade away.


	9. What's Normal?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I've been away from this so long! I promise that this will be finished. I may not update as regularly as I would like but I will finish this fic soon. Maybe a few more chapters just to make it to 15 or so.

I have never felt this much physical pain since the time I fell off my horse and broke my arm; moving Marco into my house, which is kind of awkward since we only just started dating, has got to be the most physical activity I’ve done in months, no, years! My back is practically screaming in pain and I swear I just want to pass out on top of my couch. Marco just laughs at me as he carries in three boxes with ease, his goddamn muscles are both amazing to look at and amazingly useful.

“Jean, if you’re not going to help, then I suggest you bring your boyfriend something to drink!” My mother insisted on being here when Marco moved in, along with Connie and Sasha who left an hour into unpacking, having “papers to grade” as they said.

“Alright, alright!” I hold up my hands in surrender as Marco laughed, his cheeks flushed from the work. I’d rather stare at Marco as he worked but I guess I should do some work, right? I walk into the kitchen to pour a glass of water for my boyfriend (god, it feels great to call him that) and I can hear my mom trying to get Marco to talk about his parents, a topic I’ve never even thought to ask about. He sounds distant, as if he’s rehearsed all of this.

“My parents and I have a very good relationship; I visit every holiday, except Thanksgiving because of work. My brother is very happy with them.” His voice sounds almost monotone as he recites the vague details. My mother must be making a worried face because Marco quickly changes the subject to something else: me.

“So, Jeanbo? It’s such a cute nickname! I take it you two are very close?” I can practically feel my mother’s adoring smile that graces her lips every time I’m brought up in conversation; it used to freak me out but now I love it, I feel as if I’m never as loved as I am in that moment.

“Oh god, yes! He and I have been through thick and thin together and he’s been the best son a mother could ask for.” Her voice trails off into a whisper, probably to prevent me from hearing her talk about how she worries and worries that I spend too much time by myself. I roll my eyes at the thought and walk out into the front room, laughing at my mother’s shocked expression.

“Mom, were you bragging about me again?” I only ask this to throw her off, I don’t need her to know that I know exactly what she was whispering about, it’s what everyone whispers about when they talk about me.

“Of course, Jeanbo, I always brag about you! You’re my favourite son!” She giggles and nudges Marco, who doesn’t understand the joke, of course.

“Mom, I’m your only son…” This joke got old the first time she said it and it just kept getting worse but it’s what makes my mom who she is. I laugh, no matter how old the joke is, and hand Marco his drink, his hand brushing mine just slightly and I blush like a little schoolgirl. We stare at our hands, unsure of what to do now that everything seems to be inside the house and my mother started texting someone (probably Levi, my agent, about release dates and things we don’t speak about around Marco or anyone else).

“So, uh, I’ve never seen the second floor of your house, Jean. Would it be alright if I-“ Marco begins, scratching his head nervously. I shake my head frantically, trying to convey how not alright that is.

“The upstairs is my, well, my workspace so I don’t really like anyone up there.” I burst out, hands moving quickly as I talk. “It’s dark up there, too, so you’d probably trip and hurt yourself which wouldn’t be good.” My rambling is brought to an end when he takes my hand reassuringly.

“It’s okay,” he replies, smiling a bit sadly, which throws me off. “I understand; you don’t have to show me if you don’t want to.”

Nodding, I turn to my mother, silently urging her to help make small talk since I seem to fail every time I try. She doesn’t even look up, which leaves me and Marco in an uncomfortable silence. To be honest, we’ve been in an uncomfortable silence since last night. Neither of us seemed to know what to do after “officially” becoming a couple so we just stood, with our hands entwined, and then he left. He did kiss my cheek again, which shouldn’t have made me freak out but, you know me, I freak out every time he looks at me.

“Jean, Levi says to meet him today at Petra’s office; he has some things he needs you to look at and sign for the upcoming-“ I interrupt my mother right before she mentions the book signing I have to go to, for some reason. I told Levi that I wanted to remain completely anonymous; no pictures in my books, not even my real name! But he always tries to push me out into the spotlight and I always end up going through with it. I don’t even know how we’re going to pull the book signing off without showing my face; I have a bad feeling about the whole thing but what Levi says goes. 

“Mom, don’t you have that thing with that one person that’s really important?” I try my hardest to seem calm but if Marco knew about everything, about my book, my fame, he’d treat me differently. 

She stares at me and shakes her head a little but concedes. “Yeah, I guess you’re right, thank you for reminding me, Jean.” I could feel the anger and disappointment in her voice but the look on Marco’s face is even worse; he tries to hide it, of course, but that doesn’t stop me from noticing how hurt he was that there was something I was hiding from him. If only he knew, then he’d really feel hurt. I’ve been lying to him practically since we met, which I feel absolutely horrible about. 

As soon as my mother was gone, Marco coughs pointedly, trying to get me to look at him but I just can’t. My boyfriend of not even one day yet now lives with me and would see every flaw that I try so hard to hide. The only sanctuary I have left was the second floor but that would soon be gone because I’d eventually cave and let Marco go up there and, I’m not gonna lie, it’s pretty cozy up there so he’d probably want to go up there a lot. I know I’d have to talk to him about certain things sooner or later but at that moment, I’m just focused on distracting him.

“Jean, can we talk?” Ah, the dreaded words; if we talked, then I’d talk too much but I knew it was necessary so I nod, lead him to the kitchen and start making a pot of coffee.

“Can we wait? To talk, that is, until the coffee is ready?” I want to delay this as much as possible. He had just moved in, I know that, but my mind keeps telling me that he’s going to want to move out, that I wasn’t who he thought I was, that-

“Of course! It’s nothing too serious.” The way he smiles at me relieves some of the tension in my gut; his smile could probably cure disease in high doses, it’s so calming. We sit in silence at the kitchen table, me on one end, him on the other, waiting for the coffee to brew. It feels like we’re in a business meeting, not in my-our home. My hands are twitching, itching to squeeze something in order to ground myself and I guess Marco notices because he gets up and moves to the chair right next to me, taking my shaking hands in his steady and warm ones.

“Why are you nervous? I promise that what I want to talk about isn’t bad, it’s just-“ his words get cut off by the alarm from my coffee pot, letting me know that it’s done. I hesitate a little, wanting to keep holding his hands, but instead I stand up to pour each of us a cup, bringing them back with sugar and some cream.

“This is my favourite blend; it’s from the coffee shop, Hanji always lets me buy in bulk.” My body relaxes at the first sip of the beverage; coffee isn’t too good for you but I always make sure to get a few cups in each day. Marco looks at me expectantly, knowing that I'm stalling, and I know that I have to explain why I was nervous and that it “wasn’t his fault” but I want to bask in the scent and taste of my coffee for just a bit longer. A few sips later and I feel somewhat ready so I take his hand and begin.

“I get nervous most of the time. Sometimes there’s not really a cause and sometimes there is. This time I was, uh, just really nervous about what you might what to talk about. But, um, you said it wasn’t anything bad or too serious, right?” I cringes internally at how weak my voice is, how scared I sound; it’s always like this but I keep expecting it to somehow change, as if I’d wake up one day and be a bit different than before.

“Mmhm, nothing too serious and definitely nothing bad. I’m sorry that I made you nervous; I’ll remember to clarify next time.” His words are punctuated by a small kiss to my cheek, which makes me blush. I’m still getting used to the idea of kissing and holding hands and doing things that boyfriends do; he can see that, somehow, and I think he just wanted to show me how slow he was willing to go. “What I wanted to talk about was a, uh, date. A proper date, just me and you.”

Oh. Oh that sounds very nice; just us, no one there to interrupt or distract either of us. We’d get dinner or maybe order in and sit around watching a movie. Maybe we could go to a museum and get to see some of the new exhibits. It’s probably changed a lot since the last time I’ve been there; Marlowe was the last one to take me out on a date and they mostly wanted to go to the museum, which is why I haven’t gone since. But I think it’s time for new memories to be made.

“Could we go to the museum? I haven’t been there in a while and it’s usually really quiet this time of year.” The hope in my voice is evident and I know I’m probably asking too much; the museum isn’t the most fun place to be for a lot of people but I think Marco would like it.

“That sounds lovely.” He stands and takes our now empty mugs, rinsing them in the sink. I stand awkwardly, waiting for something but I don’t know what. Am I waiting for him to speak more or am I waiting for myself to get the courage up to kiss him? Marco speaks, however, before I can even decide.

“I know our relationship isn’t exactly ‘normal’, since I moved in right away. I hope I haven’t made you uneasy.” He isn’t facing me when he says this so I know that he’s nervous too. I walk over to him and, mustering up all the courage I have, place a short kiss on his cheek.

“Marco, nothing in this house is ‘normal’; me, the décor, even my cat.” He laughs a bit and turns to face me, arms wrapping loosely around my waist, giving me a bit of space. I lean in and kiss him because even the ‘bad’ part of my brain knows that that’s the right thing to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, please come see me @kirschbooty on tumblr and hit that kudos button! Leave a comment either here or send me an ask on my blog!


	10. Bad Art, Cute Selfie, Great Date

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's actually a Museum of Bad Art! It's in Massachusetts and here's the link to the website ([x](http://www.museumofbadart.org/))

Marco has to work this morning before our date so I’m here alone, trying to get my shit together so I can meet him at the museum on time. He and I discussed our favourite local museums before finally deciding that the small museum downtown would be best; neither of us have been there and it seems like it would be interesting. Now if only I could find my other sock… My phone rings and I already know who it is. 

“Connie, why are you calling? I’m getting ready for my-“ I cut myself off before I can tell him just what I’m going to be doing today; he’d just tell Sasha, who would then rush over here to pick out my outfit and I’m already running late.

“Your date with Marco? Yeah no shit, dude. He called me all worried about what to wear.” Connie laughs but I don’t really hear it. Marco is worried about how he looks? Because of me? The little bit of pride I feel in my chest blooms like a flower in spring. I made Marco want to look his best

“He really said that?” My voice is quiet; I don’t want to scare away my happiness, not now.

“Yes, now will you shut up? Get dressed quick because he got off early from work.” Connie’s words may seem hurtful but his tone lets me know that he’s actually happy for me. I grin from ear to ear as I pull on a random sock and run to the door, forgetting that I’m still on the phone with Connie. 

“Thanks, Connie. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” And really, I don’t know what I’d do without him. He and Sasha have been with me through thick and thin. Maybe I should get them flowers…

I look myself over one last time and find that I’ve got everything but a tie; judging by my phone’s clock, however, I don’t have time to run back upstairs and find one so I unbutton the top two buttons on my shirt and head out. Marco’s gonna love this date; I’ve got a baby blue dress shirt on, the pair of jeans I wore when Marco and I had our movie night, and my hair is styled, sort of. I even got him a present: a little packet of toasted marshmallow jelly beans, his favorite.

A few minutes later, I’m standing on the steps of the Trost Museum of Bad Art; TMBA is a place where failed pieces of art are sent. Want to find a terrible painting of a landscape? They’ve got it. A large orange cat consuming humankind? Yeah, they’ve got that too. Marco and I picked this museum because we won’t have to pretend to know the symbolism behind any of it; plus it should be good for a few laughs.

Arms appear from behind me, wrapping around my waist and I try not to squeak. Marco must have gotten here before me, even though I practically ran all the way. I’ll have to remind Connie to never call me right before a date unless requested, of course.

“How was your day?” Marco hums as he hugs me; he laughs at my scowl and kisses my cheek, making my heart beat a little faster.

“Boring. Slow. A little lonely.” I bite my lip, slightly embarrassed; I’m still not used to speaking my mind. “How was work?”

Marco spins me around slowly, the smallest of smiles on his lips. “Work was decent; Hange misses you, they want you to come back and buy more coffee.” When he sees my pout, he chuckles and adds: “I missed you too.”

“Artemis was curled up on your bed before I left. I think she really likes you.” I’m deflecting, I know, but Artemis really does like him. And she really was curled up on his bed when I passed by his room this morning.

“Aww, that’s cute. Maybe it’s all the treats I’ve been giving her behind your back.” I don’t really mind him giving her treats but I rebuke him anyways.

“If you keep giving her those treats, she’ll be too fat to jump on your bed at night!” This makes Marco laugh and I really didn’t think that I could feel any happier but there it is. Extra happiness, compliments of Marco Bodt.

We stand there for a few more minutes, Marco’s arms still around my waist but it feels more comfortable than the other times; it feels like his arms belong there, two strong reminders that he’s there for me. I check my phone for the time and sigh; if we don’t go in now, we won’t have time to tour the entire museum before they close.

“Time to go; we’ve got a lot of shitty art to see.” Tugging him after me, I walk up the steps and into the museum. My nose instantly wrinkles; the first thing you see when you walk into the museum is this horrible painting of a city street.

“Wow…” Marco steps beside me, hand still tangled with mine, as he eyes the odd piece of art. “That’s quite interesting.”

I snort and look around for the ticket table before noticing that there isn’t one. There’s only a donation box sitting on a little table in front of the hideous painting. I pull out a twenty before Marco can even reach towards his pocket.

“I’ve got this, don’t worry.” I hear him sigh lightly but he doesn’t stop me from slipping the bill into the box. “You can buy me a coffee, if you want.”

“I think I’ve had enough of coffee for today but how does take out sound?” He’s rubbing his thumb across the back of my hand so I don’t answer right away. When my mind finally processes what he’s said, all I can do is nod and follow him as he leads us through the museum.

The day is spent observing the terrible paintings and sculptures; our laughs echoing quietly off the walls. When we’re at the last painting, Marco pulls out his phone and pulls me close for a quick selfie; cameras, even phone cameras, aren’t allowed in the museum so we have to be quick. Marco makes a silly pouty face but I, feeling a bit brave, kiss his cheek. My eyes are closed so I don’t see the flash when it goes off and I don’t see what expression Marco might have on his face but the one I see when I open my eyes fills me with relief. He’s grinning and giggling and I’m definitely maybe falling for him.

We walk back home together, his arm around my shoulder, and I feel so incredibly happy that it seems like nothing wrong could ever happen again. But later on, after we’ve gotten our take out and are halfway through the first episode of Firefly, Marco gets a phone call. He’s moved to the kitchen but I can still hear his side of the conversation. 

“Dad, please. I can’t do this right now.” He pauses, sighing heavily. “You know exactly why I haven’t come home! You don’t want to see me, not like this.”

I tune out, not wanting to invade Marco’s privacy further. Artemis jumps onto the couch and lays on my chest, her head bumping into my chin. I bet she’d be telling me to go to him, to comfort him, but I don’t know if we’re at that stage in our relationship. He’d probably feel overwhelmed and he might even get mad at me and I really don’t want that. He comes out a few minutes later, a tired smile on his face.

“Sorry, Jean, I think I’m gonna go to bed now.” He kisses my hair and moves away from me before I can reach up to hold his hand. “I had a lot of fun today, sweetheart, I’ll see you in the morning.”

We both freeze; even though we’ve kissed and just went on a date, we still haven’t called each other “sweetheart” or any of those other pet names. It feels surprisingly nice and I turn around to tell him but he’s already gone. I contemplate going to his room to see if he wants to talk about it or his phone call but Artemis starts mewling and I realize I haven’t fed her tonight yet. It’s only when I’m lying in bed, an hour or so later, that I realize I hadn’t given Marco the jelly beans. Oh well, there’s always tomorrow.


	11. UPDATE- I'M SO SORRY

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm so so sorry

This isn't an actual chapter, it's just me letting anyone who has read the story so far know that I won't be continuing it. Things have happened and I no longer enjoy the ship or the story. Thank you to everyone who kudos'd and commented, you really did make me happy!!


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